Saving H
by Analisa The Great
Summary: A small blast from her past. Horatio has to step up. A bit of hell breaks loose. Let me know if it's a go, folks. Also, I'd like to apologize for having little to no direction with this thing.
1. Chapter 1

He's always trying to save the world.

"You look tired," he says softly into my ear, making me shiver slightly.

When he came in, I was sitting on the sofa in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I hadn't expected him tonight. He startled me; he has a silent way of moving, almost like he appears from thin air.

My head is resting on my hand, my eyes half closed. The television is playing softly, I think the ten o'clock news just made way for Jay Leno.

"Not really," I say, lying. I'm exhausted. I'm a housekeeper at a resort hotel by day and a front desk clerk at the same resort hotel every other night. I haven't had a day off in two and half weeks.

I can hear his small laugh, more like an exaggerated exhalation of breath. I can feel the smile that must be gracing his thin lips. My eyes droop closed for a second and he laughs again.

"You're a terrible liar," he says softly.

I can only nod, returning the rare smile that crosses his face. I feel his hand come to rest on my shoulder.

"You should probably get to bed," he suggests.

"So should you," I counter, knowing full well that he won't fall asleep for hours yet; the images of senseless violence from his day in the field.

The news began reporting some of said violence and I can feel, more than hear him sigh. He's disgusted with how terrible people can act towards each other.

"Well, I'll tell you what," he begins, coming around the side of the sofa to stand before me. He's wearing his blue ensemble: dark navy jacket and slacks that shimmer subtly in the light, a soft light blue cotton button down shirt, a black leather belt with a silver buckle, and a pair of black dress shoes.

His places his hands on his hips, opening the waist of his jacket as he does so. He cocks his head to one side, that patient smile resurfacing.

"Why don't we go together," he finishes.

I nod, grudgingly accepting the offer that he's made.

"We could just sleep here," I offer, nodding towards the sofa.

He laughs once more.

"I'll carry you," he says flatly.

I can't help but laugh at that.

"I'm a bit offended by that giggle," he says. His eyes light up when he smiles.

"You don't smile enough," I tell him seriously. My eyes are still closed, my words slightly slurred from sleepiness.

"I'll smile more for you if you come to bed."

Tempting.

"Fine," I sigh. I open my eyes and look him over once more. He looks so worn out. My heart breaks for him. I wish I could do something to help.

As though reading my mind, he says, "Just be here."

I nod and stand. I step forward and close the space between us. I stand on tip-toe and slip my arms around his shoulders, our noses nearly touching. I marvel for a moment at how blue his eyes are before I press my cheek against his shoulder and squeeze him tightly.

He hesitates for a second, as he always does, never sure if what he's doing his right. I always have to remind him that, despite the nearly twenty years difference in our age, I'm a grown woman and can pretty much be with whomever I want to be with.

After his second of uncertainty, he wraps his arms around me and hugs me back. Wary, as always, of my reaction, he places a soft kiss on the top of my head.

"Let's go to bed," he whispers.

It's never been about sex. Sure, there is sex, but that's not what this relationship is about. I want to be with him because he's just as lonely as I am, if not more. He walls himself off from the world he's trying so desperately to save because he's been hurt by it. We've both been hurt by the world, sure. He's lost family, mine gave me up. He thought he had true love within his reach, in his sister in-law, I was turned off trying to find it altogether.

As he leads me into the bedroom, his arm about my waist, I can't help but laugh a bit at what a pair we make.

He smiles yet again, as promised, but he couldn't possibly know what I'm thinking. He pushes the door aside and gently maneuvers my sleepy body towards the bed. I sit on the edge of the bed and remove my sweats so that I'm sitting in a t-shirt and a pair of dark blue panties. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them.

He turns and admires me for a moment as he removes his jacket, carefully placing it on the back of the chair at my desk. I watch him as he unbuttons his shirt, setting it gently over his jacket.

I can't help a soft laugh when he hesitates removing his white undershirt.

"What?" he asks, deciding to remove his belt instead.

"How do you live wearing so many clothes?" I ask.

He laughs as well and gives me a small shrug. He sets the belt on the top of the small pile he's made and kicks his shoes off, nudging them beneath the chair.

He takes off his socks and sets them inside his shoes before coming to stand before me in his undershirt and boxers.

"Come to bed," I say. I crawl beneath the comforter and sheet and pull them aside for him.

He smiles warmly and climbs in beside me. I immediately wrap my arms around him and hold him close. He sighs dreamily and holds me to him, kissing my forehead as he does.

"Do you have to go in tomorrow?" I ask, knowing full well that he does. He's in the lab everyday, always trying to put something right.

He nods and squeezes me tightly, as though he doesn't intend to let me go.

"You can't save the world, Horatio."

"Maybe not," he says softly. "But I can try."

He does try, I think as I fall asleep in the safety of his arms.

He does try.


	2. Chapter 2

Her name is Abigaile. She let's her close friends call her Gabby Abby, myself included if the occasion calls for it. For the most part, I just call her Abigaile because everyone else calls her either Abby, Gaile, or Gabby Abby; Abigaile is mine. But, when she's sleeping like this, her breathing soft and even, I call her my sleeping angel. She looks so serene.

And then, she snores and destroys the illusion. I don't mind. The sound is comforting.

She's been asleep for a few hours now, keeping me in an iron like grip that no one would ever expect from such a small young woman. Huh, young woman. She's only twenty-two years old but, some nights, nights like these when she's made an attempt to stay awake on the off chance that I may show up, she seems so much older. Even in sleep, she looks exhausted.

I know how hard she works too keep herself off welfare and other systems designed to help those in the lower half of middle class. She would rather work ten jobs and never sleep than be on welfare. Her parents had been on welfare, among other things, and she fights like hell to make herself a better person than either of them.

And she is.

She doesn't think so, but I know she is. From what she's told me, she's much better off without them.

Her mother was a heroine junkie in Fort Lauderdale and her father was her pimp. Pimped his wife for money for her junk and then knocked her around for cheating on him. Not a very child friendly environment, I'd say. When my Abigaile was thirteen, she ran away because her father was considering introducing her to the game. She high tailed it to Miami and her first act was to vandalize a patrol car in order to land herself in the system.

It was a pretty smart move for a thirteen year old: commit a crime and end up in a juvenile detention center where your parents couldn't touch you with a ten foot pole. She was released at the age of eighteen and her record has been immaculate ever since.

I am amazed by her.

When we met, it was during one of those rare nights she doesn't do anything but have fun.

Somehow, Eric and Tim convinced me it would be a good idea to go clubbing. At my age, clubbing is never a good idea as it leads to one of two outcomes: going home alone and being reminded of what a lonely life I lead or the occasional one night stand, which are few and far between. I'm middle aged, not dead after all, and I'm no stranger to giving in to baser urges from time to time.

In short, the three of us ended up in Bash. I'm almost positive that Eric is responsible for getting us inside. Now, on top of being the least attractive man in the group, and that's not self pity: I call them like I see them, I was reluctant to enter the lavish SoBe dance club. But what the hell, right. It's good to know your coworkers in an out of work setting, or so I've been told.

In any case, while my two companions were busy making their way to the over crowded dance floor, I took a seat at the main bar. I ordered a scotch, neat.

"You have a beautiful voice," I heard from my right.

I turned to look at the owner of the voice that was surprisingly soft and strong at the same time.

I was surprised to meet the large, milk chocolate eyes that were smiling into mine. Her hair was shaggy and dark, hanging into those hypnotic eyes. She brushed her hair away from those eyes with her finger tips. She had small hands.

"Thank you," I said, slightly confused. I'm always taken off guard when attractive women want to talk with me.

"You're welcome," she said. She was sitting on the stool next to me, right leg crossed over her left, swinging her right foot back and forth. She was wearing a pair of old wash jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a black tank top with David Bowie done in pink glitter across the front.

What struck me the most about her when we met was that she wasn't sickly thin. She was very . . . voluptuous I guess is the word. Curvy maybe. In any case, she was beautiful that night, just like every night.

She took a sip of what looked like a pink martini which could have been anything these days.

"Gabby Abby!" someone shouted from across the room. She turned her head and smiled and waved to a young woman dancing dangerously close to Speed.

"I'm Abigaile," she said and held out her hand to be shaken. I can't remember the last woman that held her hand out like that, with so much confidence.

"Horatio," I heard myself saying. I took her hand in mine and was again surprised at how firmly she grasped mine in her smaller hand.

"Gabby Abby!" the woman yelled, though she was now standing right behind us.

"Dee Dee!" Abigaile shouted right back. She stood and embraced her friend.

"This is Horatio," she said and motioned towards me.

Dee Dee gave me a skeptical look and turned her wondering gaze toward Abilaile.

"Dance with us," she said and took Abigaile's hand.

"Dance with us," Abigaile said to me.

I could only laugh.

"No thanks," I replied, feeling the conversation was at an end. It certainly was nice of the beautiful young woman to tell me I had a nice voice. Now that that was over and done with, I would just sit here and wait for my companions to decide to either leave with or without me.

"I'll dance when they play something I know," Abigaile surprised us both. She sat back down and smiled in apology to her friend.

"Uh-huh," Dee Dee, whom I now know better and find fascinating to talk to, said slowly. She rolled her eyes and regained her place next to Speed on the dance floor.

"So," Abigaile said and took a sip of whatever she was drinking. "What are you?" she asked.

"What am I," I repeated.

"Yeah. I'm a lost cause," she said with a smile. "I don't smoke though," she added and took another drink.

"So what are you?"

I laughed and took a sip of scotch. She certainly didn't waste time.

"I'm . . ." I took a deep breath. "I'm in law enforcement."

"No, that's not what I asked," she smiled and turned in her stool, resting her elbows back on the bar.

"Hmm. I guess I'm . . . inquisitive."

She laughed and shook her head.

"You can just say that you don't know."

I laughed as well.

"I suppose I don't. No one's ever asked me to label myself."

"That you're aware of."

I nodded slowly. "I suppose."

"Don't worry. I'll figure you out."

"You're awake," she whispers against my shoulder.

"I am."

"Have you slept at all?"

I shake my head. "No."

She shifts herself so that she can lean over and place a gentle kiss on my mouth.

"You need to sleep."

I nod. I know I need to sleep. I'm as exhausted as she is.

She kisses me again and rests her head back on my shoulder.

"You're keeping me awake, Superman," she yawns. Her eyes are already closed again, her breathing slows.

She calls me Superman because she thinks I can do anything. I don't know what led her to that assumption. I asked her to stop calling me Superman once. She asked why and I said, "Because I don't want you to be disappointed." She asked why she would be disappointed with that smile she gets when she believes she's right about whatever we're discussing.

"How am I keeping you awake?"

"I can hear you blinking," she jokes. Even when she's half asleep, she can make me laugh.

"Go back to sleep," I say. I can't help but tighten my arms around her. I marvel at the way we hold each other so tightly. Whenever she can put her arms around me, it feels like she'll never let go. She told me once that I make her safe.

"Tell me a story," she whispers.

"About what?" I ask.

"About the handsome prince that falls in love with the fat peasant girl."

"You mean about the frog prince that miraculously ends up with the beautiful princess?"

She gently shoves my shoulder.

"I wish you wouldn't call yourself that."

I laugh. I don't mean it when I say frog prince, but it'll get me a compliment or two; and I know she doesn't mean it when she calls herself fat because she's just . . . so curvy.

"You have the most beautiful blue eyes," she says, true to form.

"And you give the best kisses," I say. She places another kiss on my mouth and I move one hand to rest on her hip.

"Go to sleep," she urges and snuggles closer to me, as if she could get any closer.

She's asleep again in minutes.

I can feel myself beginning to doze as well. The nearness of her, the warmth of her body against mine, her soft breathing against my shoulder are all very soothing. It's not long before I fall asleep, still wondering what she could possibly see in me.


	3. Chapter 3

"We should do dinner tonight," I suggest from my place in bed. He's buttoning his shirt across the room. He's learned that if he stands too close to the bed while he's dressing, I'll only pull him back in. He was only late for work that one time . . .

"All right," he answers. "I'd like that."

"Me too. What should we have?"

He takes a few steps closer to where I'm lying on the bed and bends down to kiss me as he shrugs his jacket on.

"Whatever you want," he answers with a smile. He sits on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on.

I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. After a hesitant moment, I feel his arms around me and he squeezes me tightly for a moment, his cheek against my hair. I sigh when his arms fall.

"I have to go," he says softly.

"I know," I say. "So go." I only tighten my arms around him. I feel more than hear his laugh.

"I really have to leave," he tries again. "Now."

I give him an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine," I say heavily. "Just go."

I can feel his smile.

"I'll call you tonight," he assures me.

"Okay," I say, switching from disappointed to cheerful.

He stands and I watch him leave. He closes the door behind him and switches the bedroom light off, assuming I'm going back to sleep. Whatever. I'm going to get up, shower, and head off to work. I housekeep today but it'll be my night off.

I think I'll make some Tai.

I sit in bed for a moment more and wait to hear the front door close before I try to move. I always hope that he'll decide to take a sick day and come back. He never will, I know he won't. He has to many lives to worry about.

When the door is finally closed, I just roll over and lay in the sleep warmed spot he's left on the bed. I know I have to get up soon, I just don't want to.

The pillow smells just like him: warm and good. Very good. I hate it when he leaves; I always feel so alone.

Oh well. I sigh and get up, sulk to the bathroom and shower.

There's a Post-it on my bathroom mirror. It's written in his short, slanted writing:

_You work too hard. Take it easy today. Can't wait until dinner. Superman._

He signed it Superman.

Only I get to call him that.

And I don't know why he's telling me to take it easy when he's off saving the world again. All I have to do is scrub some toilets and make some beds.

Work is a bitch. The only way to beat it is to not care. I care very little when I'm at work. Not a lot can phase me when I'm cleaning other people's shit all day. I clock in, I stock my cart, I take my check list, and I get started. If a room hasn't left yet, oh well; they'll leave sometime.

Or, at least that's my attitude today. Horatio has that effect on me. He tells me to be calm, and I suddenly am. I'd have had a stroke by now without him, I just know it.

I'm on my fourth or fifth check out of the day and it's about eleven in the morning when something odd strikes me about one of the names on my list. The last name of one of the guests seems familiar. I can't place the name, though. It seems as though I should know it from . . . somewhere.

Oh, God . . .

I'm trying not to rush my paperwork. It's hard not to, knowing what's waiting for me afterwards. I resist the urge to add the words "at home" to that last thought. Her home isn't my home. I try not to push her into anything and I definitely haven't brought up the subject of living together. I like my privacy, first of all. And secondly, I don't know if she's that comfortable with me yet.

I'm going to call her.

The phone rings a few times before she picks. I don't think anything of it because she said she was going to make dinner.

"Hello?" she asks in a small voice.

That's odd. She almost sounds afraid to be answering the phone.

"Hi," I say. "How was work?"

She hesitates before she answers.

"Fine," she says.

Not fine, I think.

"Okay," I say. "Look, uh, I've got some reports to finish up here, but I should be over in about an hour."

"Okay," she says.

Something's not right. No matter what kind of mood she's in (happy, sad, angry, whatever) she's never this . . . monosyllabic.

"Okay. You want to tell me what's going on?"

Silence, and then, "I'm making dinner."

"Okay," I say. "Okay. I'll be over soon, all right?"

"Okay," she says again.

Not okay.

She hangs up the phone and I put up my end. I need to get these reports finished up and get over there. She sounded so . . . dead. Not herself at all.

I have my own keys and let myself inside. I can smell her making dinner from my place in the doorway. She's making something spicy and I have to smile; she only cooks something spicy when I'm not there to protest. I open my mouth to announce my presence and hear strange laughter from the kitchen. It sounds like Abigaile and two other people. One of them is male, maybe twenty-five, the other female, about as old as Abigaile.

I know that she hates it when I sneak up on her (which I will maintain that I don't, she doesn't listen for me), but I'm not sure I should make myself known just yet. I walk carefully to the kitchen doorway, half listening to the two strangers talking but mostly waiting to hear Abigaile's reaction to their words.

"Remember the time we came to spend the night at your house and your dad passed out drunk on the bathroom floor so we all had to go to the gas station at two in the morning to pee?" asked the female voice. It was high pitched and irritating.

"Which time?" asked the male. He laughed uproariously at his own joke and I heard the female join in. Abigaile let out a fake laugh that was more a sigh than anything. I know now whose father they're talking about.

"Yeah, it was good times," Abigaile says good naturedly. She sounds worn out. Maybe I should step in.

"What about when your mom brought those two guys home and we had to sleep in the garage to get away from the noise?" the female asked again.

Now I'm going to step in. I stand in the doorway, not saying a word and smile when she looks up and sees me. I've never seen her face light up like that. She practically leaps from her seat at the kitchen table and runs to me. I open my arms to her and she slams into my chest, nearly knocking me down.

"Thank God, you're here," she whispers and kisses me with gusto.

"Hey, Gale, this your p.o.?" the male asks.

She sighs heavily and plasters a false smile on her lips. She turns and laughs with these two strangers and walks to the stove to give a quick stir to whatever's in the pan.

"This is . . . Horatio," she says with some hesitation.

I step into the room. I know I have a presence; I can fill a room just by glancing around, which I do now, to let people know that I'm a force to be reckoned with. I smile in greeting to these two people who seem to know Abigaile so well.

"He's my . . ." she falters, not quite knowing what to call me. Before I can answer for her, not quite knowing what to call myself, she comes through. "He's my boyfriend, guys," she says.

There is a collective intake of breath from those present, myself included. I've never heard her say that out loud before. In fact, I wasn't quite sure that she knew what I was before now. I can't say that I've always known she was my girlfriend until this point, but I have always know that she's important to me.

"Oh, girl, we got to talk about this," the female says.

"Superman, this is Melissa and Steven," Abigaile introduces her friends.

"Superman?" Steven asks. "Gale, what is this?"

"Are you guys going to stay for dinner?" she asks them. "We're having Pad Thai." She smiles at me, the smile she saves for when she's gotten her way without working for it.

"I don't think so, Gale," Melissa says. "But call me later. Or will I just see you at the hotel tomorrow?"

"I don't think so," Abigaile says. "I've got some time off."

"Okay. Well, I'll call you later," the other girl replies.

They stand to leave.

"It was nice meeting you," Steven says to me as he passes through the doorway. Melissa only nods on her way out.

Once the front door is closed behind them, I step further into the kitchen and shrug off my jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair. I walk up behind her and stand close, feeling her shoulders tremble a bit as she removes the pan from the burner and turns off the stove. She's shaking now and turns, wrapping her arms around me tightly.

"I'm so glad you're home," she says.

Home. She's never said that before either.

"Want to tell me what's going on?" I ask.

I don't. I don't want to talk about it. But he's standing here, holding me while I break down and cry in the kitchen. And he feels so good, so solid.

"I went to work today and they were staying at the hotel and I just . . . I don't

know what happened," I say.

"Who are they?" he asks softly. His breath feels so good against my forehead.

"Kids from down the street in Lauderdale," I explain. "Steven used to baby sit me and Melissa when . . . Our parents used to be friends," is the best I can do.

He doesn't say anything, just makes that apprehensive noise he uses to let people know he's still listening. He's rubbing my back ever so lightly. It feels so good to know he cares about me.

"They just brought back a lot of stuff, you know. I'm glad you came when you did." I knew that he would chase them away. Even though I realize he had no intention of actually chasing them off, I knew they'd leave. He has that stance, that presence that just screams "I'm an authority figure in a position to put you in your place." It's a good presence.

We're just standing in the kitchen now. Dinner is forgotten and I just want to stay like this forever. I just want to be in his arms forever. I want to kiss him, so I do. He lets out a soft moan when our lips meet. I love the small noises he makes, almost like small growls.

"I love you," I blurt out. I don't think he's heard me. He's not saying anything back. Great, I've ruined the one good thing in my life.

"I . . ." I don't know how to fix this.


End file.
